


Fault Line

by Azereaux



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-23 23:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16628525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azereaux/pseuds/Azereaux
Summary: This is the last time, Prowl thinks as he looks at the warehouse doors.This is the last time. Yet.





	Fault Line

**Author's Note:**

> Lockdown/Prowl has been my TF OTP since 2008 so why not finally write something for them (and ended upwith this LEL)  
> Not a songfic, but I definitely wrote this listening to Rosemary - Deftones on repeat, and it has loosely influenced me.

 

This is the last time, Prowl thinks as he looks at the warehouse doors.

Even though he knows it’s just a hologram to disguise Lockdown’s ship Prowl treats it like a real building. He pushes his servos against the doors – the doors that weigh like nothing and feel like nothing under his touch – and when they part open he hears such a realistic creak from its hinges that he’s almost surprised to see the interior of the Death’s Head when he steps inside rather than stacks of cardboard boxes and stretches of moonlight illuminating a concrete floor.

This is the last time. Yet.

He takes another step. No matter how many times he’s told himself _never again_ , Prowl finds himself back here. Here is somewhere in Detroit – or at least nearby – sneaking out of the Autobot base in the odd hours of the morning when nothing savory happens, and to the location Lockdown sends him when he’s back on Earth.

Lockdown never forces him to come. All he does is send coordinates and waits. Then Prowl is quickly out on the dark, cold morning roads and passing streetlights in such a haste that it looks like orange blurs overhead. And, just maybe, one of these days it’ll be a trap. He’s sure the Decepticons would pay well for one of their heads. Or maybe one day Prowl will finally ignore him, or tell Lockdown a second time to never contact him again ever (and mean it) or he’ll take those coordinates and give them to the Elite Guard. One day. But not tonight.

He should ignore him.

Prowl takes another step.

He reaches the middle of the room and stands in front of the table situated there, listening to the dull thrumming of the engines. One of the four light bulbs overhead the table is dead making the already dimly lit ship even dimmer, and forcing Prowl to adjust his optics to accommodate the lack of light before looking around. It’s almost like how he remembers it, perhaps a few more trophies mounted along the walls because the shelves are already crammed full of parts and packed from top to bottom.

Prowl places his servo on the edge of the table. The metal is cool under his touch. He notices the clamps on either corners of the table, four curved rigid pieces that leaves little room to the imagination to what they’re for – of everyone who wasn’t as lucky as himself to have such civil encounters with Lockdown. He feels his spark twist and tries not to think about it.

Suddenly there is another servo placed on top of his own.

Quickly Prowl spins around with a shuriken in his digits and stops just before the sharp metal edge meets a neck.

Lockdown’s gaze goes from a point on the shuriken, sweeps down an arm, and stops when he meets cool blue optics hiding behind a visor. He smirks. “Knew you wouldn’t do it.”

Prowl, unimpressed, says, “You surprised me.”

Lockdown draws back.

“Thought you woulda heard me.”

“You caught me while I was lost in thought.” Prowl replaces his weapon into his hubcap before turning away from Lockdown and looking back to the shelves. “I’ve just been wondering where you’ve been to this time.”

Prowl never asks what he’s been _doing_ because what he’s been doing is obvious from the extra parts on the wall. Prowl doesn’t recognize the bright green shield. As he continues to stare at it, he’s grateful that Lockdown has a sense of awareness for the certain displeasure Prowl has for his occupation, and he places his good servo against Prowl’s cheek and turns his helm so they can face each other as a distraction away from it.

“I was close enough to be able to make a stop back on Earth,” he says, “thought I’d give you a call and let you know.”

“You don’t have to,” Prowl says. His own servo finds its way onto the one against his cheek. His original intention of removing it is suddenly forgotten, and Prowl ends up just holding it in place.

“Well, you don’t have to either.”

“Don’t have to what?”

“Come,” Lockdown says.

Prowl frowns. He immediately drops his servo back to his side.

“If you called me here tonight just to remind me of my lack of restraint –”

“No no – that ain’t it.” Lockdown notices Prowl is still frowning. “Come on now, don’t be like that.”

“But you’re right,” Prowl replies, “I shouldn’t even be here.”

“And I didn’t have to come to Earth” – he motions casually around the ship with his hook – “but here I am.”

“This is improper,” Prowl protests. “Against protocol.”

“Well, you got a little bit of rogue in you,” he replies, “that’s what I like.”

“It doesn’t matter what you like –”

Suddenly Lockdown is pressing against him, effectively shutting him up. Prowl’s aft bumps into the edge of the table, and Lockdown’s panel is against his own – Prowl can already feel the charge warming up underneath. Then there’s a servo and a hook on either side of his frame barring him from moving. He’s completely trapped in. It’s moments like these that Prowl becomes acutely aware of their size difference – Lockdown is broad compared to his slim frame. Their heights, too, becomes a point of consciousness; his optics are at the level of the – _fake_ , Prowl reminds himself, the fake – Decepticon insignia stuck onto the middle of his chassis. There’s an edge to the faux sign that looks as if it’s been picked at, and Prowl wants to use that edge to rip it off.

Instead his servos go to Lockdown’s chassis, feigning to push him off.

“What are you doing?” Prowl asks, though he has enough experience to know.

“Ain’t it obvious?” He chuckles. “Thought we’d done this enough.”

His helm ducks down near Prowl’s audial, and Prowl feels kissing against his neck.

“Wait.” Prowl feels him stop for a moment, but only to feel lips back on his neck, mouthing insistently now. Before his own charge gets a chance to build up, Prowl finally finds the willpower to actually try and push him away. “What has gotten into you?”

“Whaddya mean?” Lockdown murmurs against his throat.

“It's like you're in a rush.”

“Maybe.” Lockdown places one more quick kiss against Prowl’s neck before saying, “Don’t know when I’ll be back.”

Prowl stops pushing.

“Explain.”

He’s still bent low near Prowl’s audial when he says, “I’m going far.” Now he’s rising from his hunched position to look at Prowl past his visor, searching for his bright blue optics. “The next bounty. This bot’s run real far. Lethal. Paranoid cause he knows I’m probably comin’ after him – which is true.”

“And how does this concern me?”

Lockdown chuckles. “Don’t lie to yourself, Prowl.”

He quickly changes the subject. “So is it even worth it if he’s that dangerous?”

“Slag yeah,” Lockdown replies. “His bounty is worth only second to Starscream’s.”

“I still wish you wouldn’t,” Prowl says before he can stop himself. Then he clamps his mouth shut. Too late, he realizes, when he sees Lockdown amusement. “W-what I mean is, logically speaking, there is no value if you’re offlined.”

“Then come with me. Make sure I don’t.”

“You know I can’t.”

“‘Course you can. Just stay here.”

“I can’t,” Prowl repeats. “You know this as well as I do.”

“What's stopping you?”

“ _Lockdown._ ”

Lockdown just shrugs.

“Fine. Don’t.” He bends down again so his face is level with Prowl’s own. “But give me a good luck kiss so I come back.”

“An absurd notion. You can’t guarantee it’ll work.”

“C’mon kid, humour me.”

Prowl sees unwavering, burning red optics staring back into his own.

“A kiss.” Prowl holds up his servo, extending a digit. “One.”

“One.”

He leans in, taps his lips quickly against Lockdown’s own, and draws back.

“There.”

He frowns. “Slag kid, you callin’ that a kiss? That was barely a graze. Give me a proper one.” Lockdown’s optics dim. “I know you got it in you.”

Prowl rolls his optics and sighs.

He takes Lockdown’s helm between his servos, offlines his own optics, and pulls closer until their lips meet. He’s mindful of keeping the touch between them drawn out longer; Lockdown always had a large physical appetite. Prowl’s servos move down Lockdown’s neck, paying extra attention to playing with the spikes on either side, and ends when his digits lace together against the back of his neck. He hears Lockdown’s vents kick in, and the plating against his own is growing hotter.

The charge is building up inside again, and this time Prowl allows it. His own vents begin to cycle when the temperature in the ship starts to feel as if it was rising even though he knows it’s only just the heat rising from his core.

Lockdown’s servo moves from the table and Prowl feels it running up and down his side, digits soon moving to dip into seams curving into his back, his hip. The side of Lockdown’s hook is running along his waist. Prowl is taken aback by the uncharacteristic gentleness of the situation. He’s gotten use to Lockdown’s urgency and roughness, of wanting to fulfill the need that has been built up from months without contact. But now that a few months might turn into who-knows-how-long, the tenderness makes Prowl’s spark ache, has him wanting to believe that there has always been more to their trysts, and if right now Lockdown asks Prowl again to stay with him on this ship he just might finally give in.

When there’s a glossa prodding against his lips Prowl doesn’t pull back, for once doesn’t think that Lockdown’s taken enough for the night, and allows him the opportunity to slide into his mouth. It’s familiar, the feeling of Lockdown wanting him – wanting to be in him. He feels the temperature in his core climbing even higher the deeper Lockdown kisses him like he wants to commit the taste of Prowl to his processor.

With a final swipe of his own glossa across the chip in Lockdown’s denta, Prowl draws back and onlines his optics.

“Satisfied?” he asks.

“Not with you playin’ around like that,” Lockdown responds, feeling Prowl’s digits massaging and into the ridges along his neck. He pushes their plates harder against each other and grinds down. He places a hard kiss on Prowl’s lips. Another. And then another.

“You said only one,” Prowl manages to state in between Lockdown’s kisses. But he doesn’t fight him off. Instead he moves both his servos to the large of Lockdown’s back and keeps their frames pressed together, optics lights flickering from the friction of their heated plating. When he shifts his legs to a wider position Lockdown begins to grind down even more. He feels his lubricating system inching on, knowing and preparing for what’s to come.

“Yeah, one from you,” Lockdown responds. He gives another firm grind down, causing Prowl’s digits to scramble against Lockdown’s back and find a seam to hold onto, while the cables in his thighs tighten from the sensation. “I said nothin’ about me.”

Lockdown’s own servo and hook move from caressing Prowl’s frame to hold underneath his aft. Prowl’s vents hitch when he feels his pedes lift from the floor, his whole frame being carried and then placed onto his back against the metal table. He spreads his legs to accommodate Lockdown when he climbs on the table and kneels between Prowl’s legs, the back of Prowl's thigh hitched on top of Lockdown's own. He splays out his large servo, trying to grip as much of Prowl’s slim leg as he could, running up from inside his thigh, making his way from his knee to caress his pelvic seam. His hook does the same, dragging the back of it along the inside of Prowl’s other thigh.

“C’mon Prowl,” Lockdown murmurs, “open up from me.”

“You too,” Prowl counters. Even though it’s been countless times, he can’t shake off his innate prudishness. “I don’t want to be the only one exposed.”

He’s giving Prowl another smirk, incidentally showing off his chipped denta.

“You don’t have to worry ‘bout that,” Lockdown replies.

Prowl hears a panel retract and glances down to see Lockdown’s spike, thick and ridged at the bottom and already fully extended, prefluid building up on the tip. Energon burns his cheeks. Shameless, as always. And just when Prowl thinks the room couldn’t get any hotter his fans hum even louder with the passing thought of Lockdown buried deep inside of him, and the too real knowledge of what it feels like. It’s enough to make Prowl give up his last bit of reservation and his own panels retracts with a click. His spike curves over his torso and his valve is wet with lubrication.

Lockdown shifts positions to hovering over Prowl, his hooked arm supporting his weight while his servo moves to grasp Prowl’s spike, dragging the pad of his digit on the way up along the underside, and circles over the tip until his servo moves back down to grip both of their spikes in his hand. He begins to stroke up and down, giving little squeezes whenever he slides down to the base, making Prowl’s vocalizer sputter and static. Lockdown bends down to bite softly on the golden edge of his shoulder piece, then makes his way back to licking up the length of Prowl’s throat and lightly biting at the cables.

“L-Lockdown,” Prowl manages to stammer out between cracks of static.

His mouth falls open and his grip tightens on Lockdown’s back when he feels Lockdown’s servo release its hold and moves lower until he reaches Prowl’s aft, pressing two digits into his exposed valve and moves in slowly. He’s lubricated more than enough that the digits slide smoothly when he pulls out and pushes back in, curling inside his valve and stretching. Lockdown manages to push deep enough to activate the node inside, and Prowl’s optics flash bright when a charge shoots down his spinal strut and pulses throughout his frame. Then Lockdown does it again and again and _again_ , rubbing his digits against the sensor until it makes Prowl’s processor blank and all he can do is moan when his vocalizer decides to work and feel his legs shake as they try to clench around Lockdown’s waist.

He pulls out his digits coated in Prowl’s lubrication, not caring how it slicks his pelvis when he goes to grab his own spike and lines up with Prowl’s valve. Lockdown’s vents kick into a higher setting when Prowl manages to shakily nudge his aft closer to the blunt tip of his spike, trying to coax him into moving faster.

“Do it,” Prowl demands.

“That’s it,” Lockdown says, “let that bit of rogue come out.” He begins to slide in.

“Ahh...” Prowl gasps when he feels it. He pushes in slow, letting Prowl feel the stretch of his valve – he’s so slim that Lockdown always makes him feel so _full_ – and letting him feel the ridges at the bottom of his spike drag across his interior node slowly. Prowl feels weak in the knees again, pedes tipping forward as he feels Lockdown owning him inch by inch until he is pressed flush against his aft, and all he can do is wait for him to move.

He does, slowly sliding out of Prowl’s valve until it’s only the tip of his spike still inside, still for a second, then thrusts back in one quick motion. Prowl’s optics flashes bright again and he chokes, fans stuttering, when he feels the impact of Lockdown’s pelvis meeting his aft. His back slides up on the table, but his grip on the spikes on Lockdown’s back keeps Prowl from being shoved off the table as he pushes down to meet the snapping of Lockdown’s hips.

It’s urgent in the beginning. It’s rough. It’s so typical of Lockdown to thrust hard and fast into Prowl until his vocalizer completely gives out to static between barely recognizable repetitions of his name _L-Lockdown o-oh Lock– ah –own –d-down_ and Prowl’s dripping lubricant from his valve onto the table and slicking up Lockdown’s thick spike with every move as he chases his overload. But then Lockdown buries himself deep into Prowl’s valve, rotating his hips in a way that has the electricity shooting down Prowl’s spinal strut in a burst again, and kisses him long and deep before pulling out and slowly pushing back in.

Prowl can’t help but intake sharply. This is new.

His vocalizer can actually stabilize itself.

“What are you…?”

“Changed my mind.” Lockdown kisses Prowl on the lips again to quiet him down. “Ain’t in a rush.”

Lockdown adjusts his arm on the table before pushing back in slow. What was once a tightly wound up knot of energy building inside of Prowl’s core has ebbed away into a steady current. It isn’t any less pleasurable, just different. Gentle. The kisses against Prowl’s lips are soft and longing, not hungry and devouring. His hook, which Lockdown usually keeps in an out-of-the-way place in their frantic coupling, is running alongside Prowl’s hip and then the back of his thigh, leaving an electric trail of sensation behind. Prowl releases his tight grip to move his servos upward, tracing the black markings on the back of Lockdown’s helm, and deepens their kiss as he feels Lockdown moving against him. The current coursing throughout his frame is slowly peaking with every careful thrust that slides against his internal node.

“ _Oh._ ” Prowl gasps against the lips just a fraction away from his own. His legs are shaking again and trying to keep hold by Lockdown’s hips. He feels the overload he's been chasing finally getting closer.

“That’s it,” Lockdown says. The static in his vocalizer clings to his words; he feels just as wound up as Prowl. He moves to kiss at Prowl’s throat again, glossa swiping up at neck cables until he’s right beneath his audial. He’s murmuring a string of words, not quite cognizant of what he’s saying exactly but it must be something good because suddenly Prowl’s grip tightens and he's gasping as he overloads.

“Y-yes – _Lockdown_.” Prowl is steadily trickling lubricant from his valve instead of just dripping now, coating his inner thighs with every wet thrust from Lockdown. The mounting charge inside has reached its peak and pulses across his frame like intense waves instead of wracking him like a bang as usual. His own spike shoots transfluid across his chassis without even needing to be touched.

“ _Prowl_ ,” Lockdown manages to growl back when he feels Prowl’s valve tightening. A few more good, strong thrusts and he’s back to biting down on a black-and-golden shoulder piece as he overloads, spilling deep inside of Prowl.

-

Prowl doesn’t know when he had fallen into a stasis nap but it probably wasn’t long since he couldn’t hear the sounds of the early birds chirping outside of the ship, and the view of the sky from the window didn't appear to have changed from the colour of ink. He moves to sit up, adjusting his optics to accommodate the lack of proper lighting and spares a glance around, only slightly surprised to have noticed he has been taken from the metal table in the main room to the much larger berth in Lockdown's private quarters. How charming, Prowl thinks. Lockdown is beside him, lying on his back and unmoving.

Prowl carefully begins to slide off the berth.

“Leavin’ already?”

Prowl looks at him. Lockdown's optics were still offline, but Prowl knows now that he is very much alert and aware of his surroundings.

“I need to go back.”

“If you're gonna go just don’t do it yet.”

Leave, Prowl thinks. The tip of his pede is already touching the floor. By now, with how many times he has visited, he should know his way through the ship without guidance and he's positive Lockdown wouldn't give chase. Besides, if he accidentally lingers here too long, Ratchet – like the old mech he is – will wake up early in the morning and hear him sneaking back into the base. He shouldn't get too attached.

So he pushes himself back onto the berth and lies down.

Prowl gazes up toward the ceiling even if he can barely see anything then turns to Lockdown; his optics are lowly burning red instead of offline like a moment ago. He, too, just stares at the ceiling. Maybe there's a point of interest like a crack he is considering to repair, or maybe there's nothing at all. Prowl doesn't bother to ask, instead he wonders exactly when he got so comfortable.

“You should stay.”

This time he thinks about it – really thinks about it, rather than letting himself get carried away by his sense of duty to the Autobots or his own complicated feelings on the situation. He never wanted to be part of any fight and Lockdown was giving him a way out. He could explore the stars and beyond, wherever the bounty takes them, taking in new sights and sounds and find the natural beauty on other planets. Lockdown didn't mingle with many others and Prowl would gladly accept a more private lifestyle. And mostly, outright leaving would spare him the guilt he feels every time he sneaks back to the Autobot base.

Prowl shifts closer on the berth. He brings a servo up to hold under Lockdown’s chin, turning his helm so they’re now facing each other. He places a kiss onto Lockdown’s lips before letting go. His spark aches.

“I can’t.”

Lockdown goes back to staring at the ceiling.

“Hey now, you can’t just do somethin’ like that and say no.”

**Author's Note:**

> Light angst? Too much angst? I don't even know anymore whoops.  
> As a fun fact I was looking at concepts and words for a title (though gave up and ended with something very basic) and came across yuanfen. I didn't feel right using it though, but I wanted to put that out there since it has a very neat concept about predetermination.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for giving this a shot!


End file.
